


A Home For Smiles

by snugglepup



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Creepypasta, Gen, Horror, No Literary Value Whatsoever, Post-Canon, Script Flip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9915542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snugglepup/pseuds/snugglepup
Summary: Toriel is not a fan of strange noises in the middle of the night, and she's definitely not a fan of coming downstairs in the dark to see her child silhouetted against the flicker and hiss of a TV screen that's showing nothing but static.(A short, silly creepypasta-ish "horror" story written for no particular reason. Prose is deliberately more purple and spooooky ghost story-ish than usual.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is just something I wrote for fun on a whim today after reading some creepypasta. Don't expect even a hint of literary value.

There is a calm and cozy house somewhere in America, a house on a street only slightly different than all the others, where a mother lives alone with her child.

The child has friends; the mother has friends of her own. Many things happen inside of this house when those friends come to visit. There are riotous bursts of laughter, parties, games, smiles all around. One might call this a happy home, hard-won as that happiness may be. Yes, if nothing else, it is a home for smiles.

... but only two bodies sleep in this home, no matter what. Friends will make excuses, some better than others, but not a single one will stay the night. That is what visiting _their_ homes is for.

You see, there are _sounds_ in that house, sometimes, sounds in the dark of night. There is tapping from inside the walls and against windows, so much like fingernails overgrown. Shadows crawl in the corners of one's eye. Cold breath glides across the backs of necks. There are times when a strange white noise rises up from downstairs, and the mother or child tiptoes down each step to find the television has turned itself on.

When the mother hears that sound, that scratching hiss, she imagines she sees patterns in the static. She doesn't like it when this happens; it makes her anxious, makes her paranoid, makes her wonder. This woman has lost much, has seen lifetimes of fear and pain, and there are times when that worry outstrips the resolve to stay logical.

One night she wakes to hear that sound again, and despite the considerable power she wields, she shudders at the thought. She wonders if perhaps there are some things that no amount of fire can deter. There is something familiar about the thought, and she does not care for _that._

The stairs creak under the careful fall of each paw, one by one, blackness melting as it comes too near the flame held in her palm to serve as a torch. She is a restless woman, though you might not know it to look at her, and flicking on the stark white of electric lighting often leaves her unable to sleep, while in contrast the kindly glow of her own light is a comfort.

But this night that comfort fades as she nears the bottom of those stairs and sees a shadow in front of that messy, random light. At first she startles – quietly, of course, for a queen does not bleat like a coward or a fool – and then she feels relief, because the shadow belongs to her own child.

That relief does not last long, because why would her child sit so serenely in front of that grating sound, that wild dancing screen?

A queen is, again, no fool. She has seen _this_ movie. Well, to be more accurate, she has seen this _scene_ in movies, and more than merely one or two. Her child has always had an odd streak of the macabre despite their endless kindness and gentle eyes, and each time they insist on immersing themself in horror, the mother sleeps uneasy after long minutes of staring at her ceiling and the child sleeps as happy and cozy as their home itself.

She stares for a while, frozen, embarrassed to feel this way, before at last she speaks.

"My child, what are you doing awake at this hour?"

They turn to face her and for just a split second she expects to see something terribly wrong... but there is nothing but that same gentle smile.

 _* Hi, mom. I'm sorry. The TV came on and I wanted to watch_ , they sign sheepishly in return.

"You... are aware that there is nothing playing at this hour, are you not?"

Something inside of her tenses and waits for the inevitable twist.

_* I just like staring into static. It calms me down._

... This is not the twist that she feared, but it does leave her brow furrowed. Her child has not been 'normal' for a single second, but this... goes rather beyond even that. She is still struggling to word her next question when they sign again.

 _* Sorry. I had bad dreams,_ they say, and the fur on her neck stands up just a bit. How close this is to a horror story, she thinks, but perhaps not; fiction is fiction of course, and the usual script for these things has already been abandoned.

_* Then I heard the TV come on and I decided to sneak down and watch for a while. Sorry. Am I in trouble?_

She chuckles to herself, quietly.

"No, of course not. Will you be alright, sleeping by yourself?"

They nod.

Then their eyes slowly go wide.

_* Mom? How can the TV be on if it's not plugged in?_

Her head whips to the corner of the room... to see the plug squarely in place. She turns back to a face that is holding in laughter.

"Back to bed," she says sternly. "Now."

They giggle as they scramble back up the stairs and to their room, leaving an embarrassed old lady to follow, both relieved and annoyed in their wake. The child crawls back into bed feeling much, much better, and eventually flicks their small nightlight off before sleep finally takes them once again.

A noise tugs them from that sleep hardly half a minute after midnight. It clicks at the edge of hearing, scrapes like claws along the floor. The child does not move, only listens as it grows closer, ever so slowly closer, and their eyes remain shut tight.

This time is different and they can feel it down to the marrow. If they turn their head and look, they are utterly sure that they will _not_ be alone, and just as sure that no prank is being played, no silly joke or random jape.

A cold breath rustles their hair.

"Who are you?", they ask quietly, despite being known by all who love them as a child who does not, _cannot_ speak.

The only answer that comes is a whisper without words. An awful rattle.

"Not very talkative, are you? I suppose it doesn't matter who you are. You've been scaring the hell out of my mother, you know."

The rattle slows.

"Listen, I'm not what _anybody_  would call a nice person, but don't you think the woman's been through enough? My friend appreciates the static, but long games like this are way too boring for me."

Their head turns, finally, eyes still shut, and the presence draws close, closer, until its breath now tickles their cheeks and nose. Their hand gropes blindly in the opposite direction, flicking on the nightlight, a weak orb of yellow, perhaps a more terrifying state from which to confront the darkness than pure darkness itself. That which can only be half-seen is often worse than both the invisible and the illuminated. The presence knows this and is pleased. Its confusion forgotten, it begins to rattle once again, starting slowly but gaining in speed and volume just a bit with each passing second.

And then the child opens their brown eyes, which are somehow shining blood red in the wavery dim. The once-short line of their mouth pulls slowly to either side.

"I don't think you'll be scaring her anymore."

A pale hand darts out, paler than the child's olive skin should be, and fingers like iron nails dig into the presence's smoky and intangible form, gripping as if they hold flesh, leaving no hope for escape. Their other hand pulls a kitchen knife from beneath their pillow, cherishing the sweetness of the moment and the grain of the wooden grip in their palm, and no pair of lips in this world should stretch so wide, none, not ever.

After that night there are no more scraping sounds in the dark, no strange tappings inside the walls apart from those made by the small feet of mice, and never again does the television click itself to life to wake the queen or the child she calls her own.

This _is_ a home for smiles, after all.


End file.
